


Pinball Machines and Digital Screens

by retrospectav



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrospectav/pseuds/retrospectav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stumbles into another world he never knew existed and meets someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All credit to a special someone for the inspiration.  
> Quorra's background story can be found here: http://tron.wikia.com/wiki/Quorra  
> No copyright infringement intended by mention of the Sherlock (BBC) or Tron or Tron: Legacy (Walt Disney) universes.

“Stop thief!!” 

The old piercing sound of a whistle ricocheted around the streets. In the distance police car sirens could be heard wailing and the red and blue lights shot down every side alley at blistering speed. In front of the lone traditional British policeman running on foot, there was a tall, dark figure in hot pursuit of said thief. The undesirable character was leading the majority of Scotland Yard on a high octane chase, only managing to stay out of arms reach as he was driving an elite model Ducati motorcycle. He was a professional burglar by trade, but had been hired by one Jim Moriarty to steal the crown jewels of England, with the aid of one small computer code, giving him access to all of the most secure and valued areas in London. 

The dark figure closest to catching the criminal was a Mr Sherlock Holmes. In fact he was the Great Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. Assisted by his loyal companion Doctor John Watson. John had gone to locate Inspector Lestrade the second Sherlock had realised Moriarty’s plan. Sherlock had taken off ahead, leaving John to ride behind with Lestrade in the accompanying police cars. 

The criminal’s tracks came to a halt outside an old abandoned two-storey arcade. He threw down the bike, grabbed his bounty and without a hesitation bolted through an unboarded entrance to the building, instantly disappearing into the blackness inside. This did not deter Sherlock in the slightest. He let himself be swallowed by the dark, confidently carrying John’s old army pistol, ready to fire if there was a need. Sherlock rummaged around in a pocket of his thick woollen trench coat for his mobile phone. He used the screen as a torch to guide himself through a myriad of plastic covered boxes, cobwebs and mounds of dust. The assailant was nowhere to be seen, but his footsteps could be heard at the other end of the large long room, echoing back to Sherlock’s ears. He rushed towards the noise, his movements rustling past the covered boxes, causing some of the plastic to unfurl and fall from its positions. Sherlock caught a glimpse of what was underneath as he ran by in a flurry of errant curls and a billowing coat. He saw that each box were in fact old retro pinball machines and digital monitor amusements. He didn’t think much of it at the time as he continued to follow the man through a series of tunnels taking a steep descent down stairs and corridors to a basement area. 

When Sherlock finally came to the end room in the basement, he looked around feverishly for the thief, brandishing John’s gun in preparation for what was to come, but to his dismay he was the only man standing in this room. Sherlock wracked his brains, straining his memory to its limits. Did the thief go down another tunnel? Did Sherlock go down the right tunnel? Where could he be? 

He noticed a small curious desk in front of him. He moved towards it to find it had an old style computer mounted within the desk’s surface. He brushed a thick layer of dust off the top of the monitor with a gloved hand. Below the screen was dimly lit, with neon green text the only thing visible. When he touched the screen its interface became brighter and its configuration morphed into a route screen. Sherlock used a pointed finger, without touching the screen, to scan down the items list that the computer had performed. Each action whether it was a system restore or malfunction, was documented in the computer’s history. Sherlock noticed that every entry was dated from sporadically from at least twenty years ago. The latest data entry however was dated today, only a matter of minutes ago. Eureka! Sherlock had found the man’s escape route. He moved his pale blue eyes across this last entry to find the file destination. It was called ‘The Grid’. Sherlock hesitated wondering if he should wait for John and Lestrade, but the crown jewels and Moriarty’s mysterious key code were moving further and further away from him. His decision had been made. With a press of his finger on the interface, he found his world being broken down pixel by pixel, changing around him before his very eyes. The interior of the cold, dingy basement was quickly replaced by a magnitude of shimmering iridescent lights of blue, white and gold. Was this ‘The Grid’? What had Sherlock done?

He was surrounded by crowds of rushing figures waking on either side of him, not making contact with his face or acknowledging his existence at all. It was pouring rain as well, soaking Sherlock’s coat quickly. He was still in a daze a few minutes later, but he realised he was not being rained on anymore. Sherlock realised he had landed rather badly, slumped in a heap, wet woollen coat weighing him down with the water it had absorbed. Sherlock looked around at his own eye level, overcome by the sudden futuristic environment. When he got his bearings straight he looked forward to where the computer screen had been sitting, to find a pair of curvaceous thighs wrapped in leather and polished fabrics. 

“H- Hello. Where am I?” Sherlock asked still confused by his surroundings. 

“Hello. You’re on the edge of The Grid. Are you okay?” A feminine voice asked.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock lied sounding breathless.  
He trailed his eyes up this person’s thighs to examine her face and the rest of her body. He was instantly dumbfounded by her beauty. She had the most bewitching silver eyes, framed by thick lashes and dark, almost feline makeup. Her hair was pitch black, bobbed at first, with short oblique layers, cut so that it fell asymmetrically to one side of her face. The expression on her face was one of concern, but innocence. Sherlock realised he had probably been looking at this woman for far too long now, so he focused his attention to steadying himself on his feet. He rose slowly, teetering on his heels, losing his balance quickly and falling to the ground with a thump.

“Please forgive me. I thought you were adequately recovered to stand.” The woman reached out a pale, graceful hand, offering it to help Sherlock to his feet. “My name’s Quorra by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Sherlock took her outstretched hand and found it surprisingly easy to right himself. 

“Thank you, Quorra. Thank you” She smiled sweetly at him. “Well, I better be off. Cases to solve, people to organise.” 

“Oh no, please stay. You need to get those wet clothes off before you catch a cold.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED

Sherlock’s mind still hadn’t completely righted itself when he returned with Quorra to her home.  
It was nothing like his comfortable, yet stuffy flat back in Baker St. It was light and airy, built in an open plan way, with minimal décor and belongings. There was a definite divide down the middle of Quorra’s house. To the left of the dwelling was a slightly glassed off area for the bathroom. The kitchen was situated along from it. All the furnishings were either silver, white or blue. To the other side of the hall was Quorra’s bedroom area. It was very spacious, although it had a large queen bed in the middle of it. It was also covered in white sheets, with a silver duvet cover. Her bedroom looked out over the city below, a vast metropolis that was The Grid. The streets below buzzed on, unaffected by the change in weather conditions. Dark, cloaked figures walked the streets with umbrellas lit up with neon sign-like lights. The large windows were framed on either side by large long curtains, each a sheer transparent material, that gently wafted in the breeze supplied by the open window.  
The only different shot of colour in the room was a few stems of purple violets protruding from a slender white vase on the bedside table. Sherlock noticed them instantly and prattled off the genus and species of the violet, hoping to impress Quorra, but she gave him another sweet smile and simply said, “I know”. Quorra then left Sherlock and entered the bathroom. She returned with a clean, white bath towel and presented it to Sherlock. “Please, sir. Make yourself at home. What’s mine is yours,” again she smiled.

“Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled indignantly at Quorra, expecting a fore raw of praise or at least some swearing projected in his direction. Sherlock waited.

“Who?” Quorra asked, perplexed by the name. Her eyes reflecting her confusion.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.” He grinned this time expecting something similar to a fanfare of trumpets.

“I’m sorry, sir. I have not heard of you. Please forgive my incompetence-.”

“Stop.” Sherlock lifted a still gloved hand to cease Quorra’s apologies. “It’s all right. I have never heard of you before today, so it is reasonable for me to accept that you might not know of me.” Sherlock smiled warmly at Quorra. This took her by surprise and she blushed, looked away and laughed embarrassingly. A certain something stirred deep within Sherlock. His pulse had increased and his hands felt sweaty trapped inside his black leather gloves.

“Please, warm yourself up with a shower.” Quorra offered the towel again to Sherlock.

“As you wish.” Sherlock removed himself and entered the bathroom. He quickly shucked his wet trench coat and laid it over a chair. Then he removed the rest of his suit. Luckily for him the damp hadn’t soaked all the way through to his briefs. He sat his underwear to one side and stepped gingerly into the shower. The shower head instantly spurted water at a luxuriously warm temperature. Sherlock continued to stand under the stream in ecstasy, basking in the relaxing effect the water had on his muscles. Sherlock confidently plunged his raven-coloured head of hair into the stream of water in front of him. It wasn't until Sherlock had washed his face and moved back to warm the rest of himself, that he was taken by surprise. His eyes opened and he saw the water for what it really was: a burst of digitised, pixel-like blocks. As warm and wet as regular water, but moving around him and tessellating again on the shower's floor, draining away down the pipes. Sherlock had never seen anything like it before and moved his slender hands to inquisitively inspect the marvel unfolding in front of him. The material acted just like water, its properties moulding around his skin and slipping off again in large droplets.  
He then remembered he was a guest in someone’s house, so quickly washed himself over and stepped out of the shower and reached for his towel. The shower head immediately switched off as Sherlock stepped onto the heated tiles outside the shower. These helped dry him from the feet upwards. Sherlock was just drying his mop of curls hair when he realised his clothes had disappeared from view. Sherlock's eyes went wide with horror. He should've known better than to shower at a stranger's quarters. Then he heard a stifled giggle nearby. He looked around to find Quorra sitting cross-legged on her large bed, across the space from him. Quorra wasn’t used to having company, in particular men and Sherlock had failed to realise that the glass of the bathroom area was completely transparent. A naked Sherlock hurriedly wrapped his towel around his lower half. The surprised look on his face caused Quorra to giggle even more. Sherlock rushed out of the shower still dripping, searching for his shirt, his underpants, even his dark trench coat! In the unfamiliarity of his surroundings and no thanks to some errant curls flopping about in front of his eyes, Sherlock lost his footing and slipped dangerously, falling backwards. Sherlock didn’t remember hitting the hard tiles beneath him. He couldn’t recall any pain or blood loss. Wearily he opened his eyes to ascertain what had prevented his almost certain concussion. His eyes met a pair of silver orbs, hovering above his head. Quorra had seen what was going to happen and had used her quick reflexes to help Sherlock land safely. Her eyes were wide, fear overcoming her.

“Mr Holmes, are you okay? Mr Holmes?”

“Please,” Sherlock calmly interrupted Quorra’s panic-stricken state, “Call me Sherlock.”


End file.
